


A Promise To Keep

by Snowbazzz_lyf



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz is a Jew, Blood, Death, Hate, Just a few fluffy moments here and there, M/M, Nazism, POV Simon Snow, Racism, Simon's a German, Written so that you and I both stay sane, You know shit goes down, hardcore angst, set during WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowbazzz_lyf/pseuds/Snowbazzz_lyf
Summary: "Promise me," I say. "Promise me that you will try your best to survive.""I promise you." He says after a few moments and I nod. We both don't know if he will hold it, but we have to hope for the best. "You take care of yourself too. I want you to be alive and well when I return."----A fic set during WWII. In Nazi Germany.Two boys and a fic that spans over nine years. There is love and there is hope, there is war and there is fear.





	A Promise To Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, I would like to apologise in advance for my German. I know hardly anything and most of the phrases I used were told to me by my friend or were taken from books and Google.
> 
> As a reference, here are some meanings of the phrases used, in the order they appear:
> 
> Fuhrer: A term that was used for Hitler 
> 
> Ungeheuer: A cruel man.
> 
> Nein: No
> 
> Arschloch: Asshole
> 
> Du wirst nicht sterben: You're not going to die.
> 
> Du bist mein ein und alles: You are my everything.
> 
> Küss mich: Kiss me.
> 
> Ich verspreche es din: I promise you.
> 
> Ich liebe dich: I love you.
> 
> Ich liebe dich auch: I love you too.
> 
> Lebewohl, meine liebe, Lebewohl: Goodbye, my love, goodbye.
> 
> Judenfrei: Free of Jews.
> 
> Danke: Thank you.
> 
> Alles Liebe zum Geburtstag: Everything nice for your birthday.
> 
> Blut und Ehre: Blood and Honour (motto of Hitler Youth)
> 
> Judenknecht: A servant of the Jews (term used for someone against Nazi ideals)
> 
> Schnautze: Shut Up
> 
> Ich bitte Sie: I am sorry
> 
> Keine Angst: Don't worry
> 
> Sich vorsehen: Watch out
> 
> Freundin: (here) girlfriend
> 
> Mein Sohn: My son
> 
> Ich liebe ihn: I love him
> 
> Danke: Thank you

_**1941, Germany** _

In this small closet-sized room, with it's dimmed lights and windows blocked by a black paper, bed musty and cramped, floor littered and without any carpet, it's only me and him. There is no one else, not my father, not the Führer nor any Nazi. It's just me and him. Me and Baz. It's our world and for now, we are we. Two boys who don't want to be separated but who know that's not possible. I want to help him, I want to hide him, I want to protect him from everyone who wants to hurt him, tear him apart like the vicious dogs they are, but I can't because my father hates him. He hates his family. He hates everyone who is like him. I don't. I can never hate Baz.

My father sympathizes with Hitler. I don't. I hate him. He is vile. He is disgusting. He killed my mother. Now he will kill Baz.

Baz, who was my solace after Mama was gone, who would play games with me, who knows how to make coins disappear and then pull them out of my ear, who knows how disgusting my eating habits are but is still my friend, will be killed by a cruel man.

No. Not a man, he is not worthy of being called a man. He is a monster.

_Ungeheuer_.

Baz and I are sitting on his bed, legs pressed together and he is trembling, his hands gripping mine tightly. "I don't- I am so afraid." He whispers, voice hardly audible and terribly strained. Baz never feels afraid. When we were six, he used to climb tall trees and laugh at me from the branches, teasing me but also teaching me to climb. He used to swim in rivers and never worry about drowning. '_You see, I'm a very good swimmer_.' That's what he would say.

But now, Baz is afraid. And so am I. I'm so afraid. He is leaving tomorrow with his father and I am worried that someone will catch him. See that he is lying in his papers. He wil be shot, or he will be sent to a camp.

Horrifying images flood my mind. Baz, weak and tired, slogging through the camp from dawn till dusk, living in cramped, unhygienic conditions. The guards and common people alike beating him, bruising and battering his beautiful pale skin. Baz never having enough to eat, half dead with hunger and exhaustion, paraded around as a spectacle, humiliated and spit on. Baz being experimented on or marched to death or shot or gassed.

Baz dead.

I can't even imagine that. It's too horrible, to imagine a world without him. I can't have that, I can't have a world without Baz. It would be bleak and so much worse. Baz is supposed to live, live till he is so old, all his hair is white, all his teeth have fallen off, his skin is wrinkled like a raisin and he has lots of children and grandchildren. Till we both are only two very old and ancient men, sitting out in the sun, talking and laughing like we always have, without fearing about anyone's life. Without the shadow of death hanging over our heads.

Baz should be alive. He should live. I can't lose him.

"I will die." He whispers again, like he can read my thoughts and hear my fears. "They will find out. I'd never be able to leave and live. They will kill Papa and then me."

"_Nein_." I say, shaking my head wildly, forcing back the tears in my eyes and squeezing his hands. "Don't say that. You'll live. You have to."

"I want to. But I- but I don't know." He is not looking at me, he is looking at our joined hands. His face is dry but his eyes are swimming with unshed tears. I don't want to cry, I don't want to show him how terribly scared I am and terrify him more but I can't help it.

"Now listen up, _arschloch_." I whisper harshly, though my voice cracks. I loosen my hands from his and bring them up to cup the back of his neck, knocking our foreheads together, staring deep into his grey eyes and breathing him in. "I know that you will not die because you are Baz Pitch and you are destined to live for years. You are the only one who cares for me and who knows me. Even if I don't see you for the next few years, I will not ever stop caring for you. So you have to live. You have to fight. You have to fight your way out of here and live. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I do." He says after a long time, nodding ever so slightly, his nose bumping against mine when he does it. His lips are slightly apart and he is looking at me in a way he hasn't ever before: soft, full of love and sorrow. It's heartbreaking.

I can't hold back my choked sob, I'm crying before I know it, tears spilling down my cheeks. He is crying too now, eyes squeezed shut, pain evident on his face, lips trembling with emotion and fear.

"Don't- don't think that- you won't die." I say finally, as I release a shuddering breath and hiccup. He nods again, he is crying too hard to say anything.

"_Du wirst nicht sterben_." I say again.

His face is drenched and slowly he lifts his hands to gently cup my face, his thumbs wiping away my tears. Shivers run down my spine, I'm acutely aware of the intimacy of this situation but I'm not going to break this moment. This might be the last time I see him... for the next few years.

"For you, I will live." He whispers, leaning closer, his wet lips brushing against mine. "_Du bist mein Ein und Alles_."

You are my everything.

I lean forwards, my lips pressing against his tenderly, the softest of touches. His mouth opens under mine without any hesitation, cold, and he tastes like dust but I don't care. It's Baz.

This should have felt good, made me feel happy because I have been longing to do so for years but it's painful, like someone is twisting a dagger through my heart because I won't be able to this again for a long time. Perhaps... Ever.

No. He won't die.

What I am doing right now, it's almost as bad as being a Jew. If SS guards storm this building right now and find us like this, it would be death for both of us. I should feel scared of that but I don't. As long as I'm with Baz, I am not afraid of anything, anyone.

"Simon." He whispers, pulling back and his eyes are wide with fear. It's like he snapped out of a trance and is just noticing what we had been doing. "Don't do this. You'll be in trouble. I don't- I don't want to harm you in any way. You shouldn't be in danger because of me."

"I already am in danger. We shouldn't even meet everyday, but I do that because I don't care. I only care about you."

"Simon..." He starts again but I kiss him before he can speak because this night is ours and I'd be damned if I let anything interrupt it. There is no Hitler in this room and there are no Nazis. There is no one but us. I can't let him go.

"Baz." I say softly against his lips. "Don't you see how it is? You know that- you know that we won't be meeting again for a long time." I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in my throat, and he is staring at me, eyes unblinking, face heavy with sadness. Taking a deep breath, I continue. "I just- I just want to have something to hold onto when you're not here. I want to have some memories. I want you to be in my mind and in my heart always. Every part of you."

"I want that too." He says after a pause, painfully honest. "I want you so badly."

"Then let yourself have me. This night is ours. Let it be ours. Don't let your fear take it away."

"Okay."

But he doesn't move, though his eyes raking over my body, my neck, my face, my lips. I don't want just his eyes on me. I want him, and his lips, his hands, his chest pressed against mine.

"_Küss mich_." I say, softly, because I want him to kiss me and forget about every thought he is having on why this isn't a good idea.

There is a pause and then Baz is pinning me down on his rickety bed, climbing over me, hands fumbling through my shirt, eyes hungry. He is undressing me with a frantic energy, not stopping once until I am completely naked. He doesn't stop to look at me, he just pulls off his shirt over his head, then slides out of his trousers before he is kissing me, gently at first and then roughly. I tangle one of my hands in his hair, pulling him closer, the other going around his back tracing the now prominent bones.

I know I am crying and so is he, our tears mixing with our sweat, the pain and the finality of separation on our faces, nearing us like approaching death. His touch sends sparks throughout my body, his callused hands comforting, his lips chapped but so gentle. I feel myself break apart under his touch.

I want to forget the fact that we are doing this probably for the first and the last time. I want to forget that everything is dark and grim outside. I don't want this to be tinged with pain but what can I do in the face of everything?

I feel like I am in a house that's on fire, trying to salvage everything precious from the roaring flames. I am trying to go slow, trying to make this last forever so that I can remember every little detail but we can only hurtle through it, like we are running short on time because we are running short on time. I want to commit every sound he makes, every kiss he places on my body, every little sweet whisper in my memory. I want to remember the feel of his hands on every part of me. I want to remember Baz, this night, these precious few hours for the rest of my life.

And in the end, I don't want to go home. I don't want to leave when it's over, when we are breathing heavily and marveling over the fact that no one caught us. I want to curl up next to him and hold him in my arms, let the world burn. I want to protect him from everyone who wants to hurt him.

But I can't. I have to go back home before dawn, so that father won't catch me. I have to leave him but I don't want to.

Quietly, I dress up and Baz watches me as he slips on his clothes. I take much longer to do my shirt buttons, or pulling up my trousers, trying to delay my return, trying to stay with him for longer. More time. I want more time.

"Take care." I say, once I can't find any other reason to stay, when I know I have to go back. I am standing at the edge of his bedroom door, cradling his face in my hands, foreheads together, his hands holding my wrists tightly. Like the way we were on his bed. He nods, his eyes are shut.

He hasn't been getting enough to eat, his face is gaunt and his bones are prominent. His hair, which used to be softer and silkier than anyone's I had ever seen, are greasy and lanky, his lips are chapped and greyish. But he is still beautiful because there will never come a time when he will cease to be.

"Promise me," I say. "Promise me that you will try your best to survive."

"_Ich verspreche es din_." He promises me after a few moments and I nod. We both don't know if he will hold it, but we have to hope for the best. "You take care of yourself too. I want you to be alive and well when I return."

He is trying to be optimistic and so am I, but there is hopelessness in his eyes. There is despair in my heart too. Oh. Oh what will I do without him?

"Simon," He whispers, voice heartbroken and soft, wavering with pain, breaking through my thoughts and his gorgeous grey eyes, the only part of him that is untouched by this doom, are boring into my plain blue ones. "_Ich liebe dich_."

I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back my tears as I hear him say it. Through the course of these few hours, I had realised that he loves me but to hear him say it... It's unbearable. It stabs me in the heart. It heals me too. I want to hear him say it again. And again. And again. But at the same time, I can't bear to hear that again.

"_Ich liebe dich auch_." I say, not being able to get anything more out of my mouth, even though I want to tell him how he means everything to me, how not being able to see him again for a long time, perhaps... perhaps forever, is killing me inside, how much I'm going to miss his snarky replies, how much I'm going to cry because I'm hurting so bad.

But I don't. I just press another kiss to his lips and then run away to where I live, the ghost of his touch still tingling through my body.

* * *

I stroll past his house -or rather where he had been hiding- the next morning, even though I know it's pointless. I know it's empty. My heart aches as I think if Baz out in the world with just his father. How will they survive? What if... What if they're already... No. No they are fine. I have to believe that.

I know I am getting late for the youth group meeting and I have to walk fast and reach on time or be punished, but I can't help but stop and stare at the crumbling roof, the vines creeping up onto the walls, darkened windows. It reeks of gloom and death now. Earlier, it was just a place where I snuck to every night to meet Baz. Where we would talk, eat the occasional and rare candy I would be able to get, plot Hitler's death and giggle at our silly ideas which would never work but were very pleasurable to think of. Sometimes he would cry and feel frustrated at being cooped up and I would try my best to comfort him. Sometimes I would leave my textbooks with him so that he could study. He was much better at it than me, anyways.

It's so silent now.

For a long time, I don't move but just stare at it, feel all the memories rush over me like a torrent. Memories of our friendship, memories of our hardships, memories of last night. I feel them drench me, transporting me to a time when Baz was at my side.

“Snow, you are not allowed to wallow in self pity.” He had said that when we were ten, a good seven years ago, when I had lost my yo-yo. It was very dear to me. I don't know why I'm remembering that incident suddenly.

“It was my favourite.” I said.

“And?”

“And now it's lost. I miss it.”

“Snow, maybe your yo-yo is in better hands.”

“I-I don't understand.”

“Maybe with someone who doesn't have any other toy? Or maybe not. It's just not with you now. But maybe you'll find it again.”

“Maybe.”

“There are better toys than yo-yos anyways.”

There's no one better than Baz. I don't want to break down, and I won't. Maybe I'll find him again.

"_Lebewohl, meine liebe_," I whisper, my voice audible only to the wind. "_Lebewohl_."

I hope that this is not a goodbye. I hope Baz keeps his promise.

* * *

_ **1941** _

The War has officially started. Everywhere I turn, in every street, in every corner, I see the same thing: destruction.

Not only the houses torn down, streets being shelled with guns and human cries shrill in the air kind of destruction.

I also witness destruction of humanity and it's destruction of hopes and dreams and it's destruction of so many innocent human lives. Of civilians who haven't done any wrong. Civilians like Baz.

There are fliers and pamphlets, big posters that announce the same thing: Make the German Reich _Judenfrei_. Posters that announce how the Jews are pests, how they will eat away our lives, how they are greedy and selfish and love no one. My eyes fall on a poster, a peeling, old one and I feel sick as I read it.

“_Money is the God of Jews. In order to earn money he commits the greatest crimes. He does not rest, until he can sit on a big sack of money, until he has become the king of money_.”

“_There is no one as selfish as a Jew_.”

I remember how last year, when Baz had been hiding away, he had handed me some money one night. I had stared at it, eyes wide with surprise as well as a little jealousy. I wanted money too, it had been ages since I had bought myself anything because even though my father and I didn't live- and still don't- in constant terror, we were- and are- dreadfully poor.

“Take it, buy me a chocolate and bring it tomorrow.” He had said, smiling at me. “I have gathered this much money with a lot of effort, so don't lose it, okay?”

“Okay.”

I bought the chocolate for him the next day while coming home from school and heroically resisted the temptation of tearing open the wrapper and eating it. Instead, I waited patiently till night had fallen and bought it to Baz, who took it, with his eyes bright.

“_Danke_.” He said, smiling, and then put the chocolate in his closet and I felt disappointed. I always shared my sweets with him, no matter how hard they were to get, yet he wasn't going to do so, but I tried to reason with myself.

Baz was poorer than I was and he hardly ever had anything to eat. So what if he wanted to eat one chocolate by himself? So what if he chose not to share it with me? So what if he kept something for himself? It wasn't the end of the world. I could survive without a chocolate.

It was my birthday two weeks later. My father had hardly done anything, though I hadn't been expecting him to do something either. Still, a few kind words would have felt better than a cold and stiff happy birthday. My mother had baked me a cake when I was five, I remember that. It has been ages since I ate cake.

Baz was waiting for me with a very wide smile when I met him that night. I was wearing a new shirt, or a new third-hand shirt, probably. He looked me up and down and raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything about it.

“Happy Birthday, Snow.” He said. Calling me Snow was the pinnacle of his weird sense of humour. I sometimes felt amused by it, sometimes irritated. Now when I think of it, I only feel miserable. No else calls me Snow. It's either Simon or Krause.

“Thank you, Baz.” I said, grinning and sitting down next to him. He leaned over his bedside and pulled out a box from under his bed and handed it to me.

“_Alles Liebe zum Geburtstag_.” He said again, much softer. “I got you something.”

Taking the box from him with trembling hands, I lifted the lid. Inside, there was a book and a chocolate; the very same chocolate I had got him two weeks back.

I tore my eyes away from the contents and stared at him while he scratched his neck awkwardly and gave a laugh, shaky and breathy.

“I know it's weird I made you buy a chocolate for yourself but you know I can't leave. And I hope you like the book. It was my mother's.”

I could barely control my grin as I took out the chocolate and opened it, careful not to tear the wrapper. I broke it in halves and handed one half to Baz, who looked ready to protest.

“It's your gift-”

“And I want to share it with my best friend. Take it, please.”

He hesitated but I thrust it in his hands and still smiling, I took a bite out of my half. After eating it for so many days, it tasted heavenly, smooth and sweet and warm and everything good. I gave a happy sigh before I folded the wrapper neatly and kept in my pocket.

“You're keeping the wrapper?” Baz asked, raising an eyebrow and sneering.

“I am. I'm going to keep it with me forever.”

“You're such a sentimental twat.” He said, rolling his eyes and eating his chocolate, his lips curving into a smile despite his efforts.

“I know I am.”

When I think of it, when I think of so many more incidents, some big and some small, I can't believe that he is greedy or selfish. Baz, who didn't have enough to eat and was always struggling with money, gave up his so that I could get a chocolate on my birthday.

And if he was like that, then why can't the others be too?

I stare at the poster, feel the taste of that chocolate in my mouth, remember Baz and his smile and him fondly calling me Snow, and then calmly step forward and tear the poster out.

* * *

_ **1943**_

"Serve the Führer." I repeat, my voice faint. I hate how weak, how pathetic I sound.

"Yes." My father says, looking up at me from where he is sitting on his armchair, drinking tea. He blinks at me and smiles, though he looks weary. I know a part of him doesn't want me to go, the part which is still human and loves his son, but Germany is suffering losses and all young men are being called. If he had wanted, he could have done something to prevent me from going but for him, the country, this hellhole, comes first, then Hitler and then somewhere far, far below those horrifying ideals, me. He will gladly send me to war to fight and die because it would bring honour to him and this godforsaken nation.

"You have to serve your country. Germany should live." He continues and nods. "We have to win this war, son, you have to join the army, serve the Führer and this country, bring glory to it. _Blut und Ehre_."

I feel like I'm going to be sick. I don't want to serve this blasted country or the man who rules it. I don't want to bring "glory" to anyone. As for blood and honour, I will never taint my hands with the blood of innocent civilians and I would rather die than fight for some "honour".

"I- I don't want to." I say slowly. My father stills, the cup raised halfway to his lips, his eyebrows raise and a muscle in his jaw twitches, a sure sign of anger.

"What did you say?"

"I said," I say, much louder and crossing my arms over my chest boldly. "I don't want to go."

"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" He barks, getting up and towering over me. "Why don't you want to join? Because you're scared? No son of mine is a coward."

"I am not scared." I growl back ferociously. "I just don't want to fight for the ideals this country is based on: Hate and murder. That's not what I believe in."

I stagger backwards as he slaps me hard, making my head spin slightly from the blow. His face has twisted into a murderous anger, eyes narrowed down to slits, and mouth open in a snarl.

"I never knew you were a _Judenknecht_."

“At least I am not a murderer!” I whisper, as I try to regain my footing. Then in a much louder voice, as I stand straight and boldly in front of him, I say, “That's what everyone here is: A murderer! You kill people and you kill children who haven't ever done anything wrong. You blame them for something that wasn't ever their fault. Coward. That what you are. That's what Hitler is. That's what every Nazi is. A fucking coward. A _Feigling_. This country is a fucking hellhole, there is no glory and honour for it.”

I have never resisted my father like this. I have never said what I think of him and this country and it's ideals out loud. If I am going to fight, then there's also a very high chance that I might not survive so who cares if he knows now. I'm no longer afraid of him. I'm no longer going to mutely listen to him spout shit with feeble protests.

He is looking at me, stricken, and his face is changing colour from red to purple with rage. I know I have pissed him off, I know I won't be able to get out of this situation. I know that in the end, I will have to fight in the war. I know that I might not survive it. But the pleasure of saying this on his face is worth everything.

“You are a disgrace.” My father says, pushing me hard and this time, I fall down. He looms over me, tall and formidable and I eye him with deep dislike. “A Jew lover. Tell me, did that Basil tell you this? Did he blubber in front of you, weeping about how scared he was? Did he-”

“_Schnautze, Arschloch_. Don't you fucking dare drag Baz into this.” I snarl as I try to get up but he kicks me hard on my chest and I double over, lying flat on back and breathing heavily.

“If you hadn't been my son, I would have handed you over to the guards. I would have killed you myself. Your Mama would have been so ashamed that she gave birth to a Judenknecht like you.”

“Go fuck yourself.” I whisper and wipe away a trickle of blood from my mouth. “Mama would have been proud. It's you she'd have been ashamed of.”

He looks ready to murder me but instead he breathes in and then says in a deadly calm voice, “You will serve your country and that's final. Maybe other young men would have a good impact on you and make you see how the Jews really are: pigs and vermins.”

Then he is storming out of the room, while I try to sit up, nursing my bruised ribs. It's him who's a pig. And a vermin.

_Arschloch_.

* * *

_“You're- you're leaving?” I ask, my throat dry. He nods, face serious and calm but his grey eyes are the colour of a storm._

_“Yes.”_

_“But it's so dangerous out there! What if- what if you're caught? Baz, you can't just-”_

_“Papa managed to get some documents which will help us to get out of here without being detected.”_

_“But- but you can still get caught... I mean- I'm just worried.”_

_“I know.” He says softly. “I'm worried about that too. But it's better if we leave. The journey- It's not safe, not at all but once we get out of here, we'd be fine.”_

_I swallow thickly as I try to process it. Baz gone, with no one to protect him. Baz lying in his documents, hoping that he wouldn't be caught. Baz far away from me, out in the world like a piece of meat in front of dogs._

_“Where are you going?” I ask, instead of vomiting out my fears._

_“I don't know.” He says, shrugging helplessly. “Papa says he will tell me on the way.” He won't meet my eyes and I know why Malcolm won't tell him. Baz trusts me blindly, his father doesn't. But I'm not hurt over that, I would have been wary too if I had been in his position._

_“Okay.” I say, trying hard not to panic. “When do you leave?”_

_Pain flashes on his face as he tries to school his features into an expressionless mask._

_“Day after tomorrow.”_

_And suddenly, we have no time left at all._

* * *

_ **1943** _

The roaring sounds of guns and grenades have already driven me half deaf. There is nothing but blood and destruction. Men lying dead or killing each other and I am in the midst of it all, trying to fight my way out of here.

Madness. It's madness. We are killing, I am killing and I hate it. I hate every part of it. I don't feel powerful, when I see the enemy fall. I don't feel good. I feel horrified. For God knows how long, I have been repeating the same thing over and over again.

“_Ich bitte Sie_.”

“Krause!” I hear someone cry and turn. It's Gareth, fallen and hurt and bleeding out all over and I rush over to him. Fuck. Gareth is probably the nicest person here, and he doesn't deserve to die. Not like this, forgotten and run over by so many others.

“Gareth! Oh Jesus. Oh good Lord, help.” I mutter as he moves and then gasps out in pain, his features scrunching up in a grimace. “Gareth, _Keine Angst_. It's fine, I am here.”

He just takes in a deep shuddering breath and grabs my hand. “It hurts.” He says and I nod. What can I do? How can I help him. He is losing blood at an alarming rate and I know what this means.

“Hold on.” I say. “Hold on.”

“Rhys.” He whispers, eyes locking with mine and besides my panic, I feel confused too now. There's no one called Rhys in our group though the name feels familiar. “Rhys... You were my dearest...”

“Rhys? Who's Rhys? Gareth? Gareth!”

He doesn't answer me, his features that had been scrunched up in pain relaxing, eyes turning glassy and I feel sick to my stomach as I realise what happened. With trembling hands, I shut his eyes, my tears falling on his dusty face.

But I don't even get to mourn for the loss of my only friend here for long as I am caught in a shower of bullets. I have to survive this, Goddammit. I have to find this Rhys.

“_Sich vorsehen_!” Someone calls out just as I turn and the next moment, a blood curdling scream rings out, while I feel weightless, and belatedly I realise I am the one who's making that sound.

Landing with a sickeningly loud thud, I am shaking as I take in deep heavy breaths and move my head to look at my left arm, the part where it hurts the most.

And then I vomit as I see that it's not there anymore.

* * *

_“You are not too happy, are you?” Gareth asks as he sits down next to me on my bunk._

_“No one is.” I say, giving a humourless laugh. “Tell me is there anyone here who wants to die?”_

_“Yes.” He answers calmly. “Half of them maybe don't want to, but they would if they have to.”_

_It's sick. How it's been hammered in their heads that they should die for the Führer and for the Reich is sick._

_“You don't want to die, do you?” He asks after a pause and I nod._

_“No. I don't.”_

_He nods and then gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder._

_“You'll survive kid. You look like a fighter.”_

_“I bloody well hope so.” That makes him laugh._

_“So what's with the wrapper?” He asks after a moment and I whip my head so fast, I almost snap my neck. He just gives me a amused smile and shrugs._

_“Wh- what?”_

_“The chocolate wrapper you keep in your pocket. Is it a good luck charm?”_

_I bite my lip and then slowly shake my head._

_“No it- it's just important.”_

_“A girl?” He asks, smiling gently. Sadly. “_Freundin_?”_

_“Something like that, yes.”_

_He nods. There is an awkward silence and then he takes out a paper from his pocket. A letter._

_“This is from my friend, Rhys. I always keep it with me too.”_

* * *

_ **1944** _

My father won't stop parading me around like a trophy.

_Mein Sohn_, he brags enthusiastically, lost his arm fighting for the good. A brave boy.

I have given up on trying to correct him. Trying to tell him that I wasn't fighting for anyone. I was just fighting to survive. Because I wanted to live.

One morning I wake up to sounds of loud yelling and cheers. Hollers and cries. With a little difficulty, I pick up a shawl and wrap it around my shoulders and lean out of my window, trying to see what's happening.

The next moment, I draw back in horror, bile rising in my throat.

A march.

A Death March.

People who live on my street are cheering, yelling their approval as the guards shove their captives ahead, urging them on. They look like skeletons, half dead with hunger and exhaustion. Their clothes are rags. Someone throws a shoe at them. Another one spits. And they can't do anything.

I don't know when they would be shot. I don't want to see it.

I close my curtains and collapse on my bed, vision getting blurred with tears. Oh, what if something like this happened with Baz? There's not a day that passes without me worrying about him, crying with anger and helplessness.

How useless I am.

* * *

Robbing my own home and then running away wasn't a good idea.

Especially not when I hear that my street got bombed the night I ran, just a few hours later. I could have died there. That would have been good. I would have been happy that way.

Because I don't even know if Baz is alive.

Baz. With his grey eyes and smug smiles, sharp mouth but kind heart. I can't bear to think that he is dead. But I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to think. I don't want to live if he's dead.

He was the only one who had loved me and cared for me, besides my mother, that is. Life always takes away what I hold close and dear to me.

I wish I die on these streets. I was so foolish to think I had to survive while fighting. I could have died like Gareth. With him.

Maybe I could have met Baz

* * *

_ **1948, USA** _

I had been found half dead on the streets and been taken pity on. A young man without an arm, and who hated the Nazis with an earnesty got me sympathy. I was cared for. My left arm (or where it had been) was properly taken care of. They told me it had never healed well. No wonder it had always hurt me like a bitch.

I currently work as a baker in a bakery, Wellbelove's. The owner is a kind gentlemen and his daughter, Agatha, helps him manage it. We have become friends, Agatha and I. I am learning English too. It's a bit tough but I am trying. I would learn well, I think.

I had got out of Europe as fast as I could. Anywhere but that damned place. I am never going to return. Maybe go back to Europe, but never Germany. I lost so much there.

The greatest loss was Baz.

I would never forget Baz. I would never forget that night. I would never forget his kisses, his shaky tears, his pain, his smiles, his love. Him.

_Ich liebe ihn._

* * *

_ **1950** _

I turn away from the kitchen counter for a second as Agatha smilies dazzlingly at me and brings in another order, probably. Her blonde hair has been tied up in an elaborate bun, a few strands escaping and falling around her face. She is beautiful, Agatha is. But I don't think I want her.

I want only one person. Someone who I probably won't meet for the rest of my life, who I saw for the last time nine years ago. Someone who I still love. Ich liebe dich auch, I had said that night, all those years ago. They weren't just the emotions of a young boy, faced with calamity and turning to anyone for comfort. They were true because I still do love him. I have never told that to anyone, not that I can.

“Oh, Simon, how lovely this cake looks! I can't decorate anything with two hands and you create marvels with just one.” Agatha says as I finish decorating the cake I had been working on. It's a simple design but it's pretty, I have to admit to that.

“_Danke_.” I say smiling and she giggles. She thinks my German is "cute".

“Oh, but that's not why I'm here, to gush about your cake.” She says, smiling lightly now. “Someone is here to meet you. Says he is your old friend.”

“An old friend? Who's he?” I ask, curious. “What's his name?”

“Dunno.” She says, shrugging. “Won't say his name. Says he wants you to see him and guess who he is, just to check you haven't forgotten him.”

“Weird.” I say and wipe my hand slightly on the towel nearby before I exit the kitchen.

There is a man leaning against the counter, his back towards me, hair ebony black and slicked back.

My friend turns when he hears me approach and I stop dead on my tracks.

His face is scarred, two small white marks on his left cheek, one big one that runs from up his widow's peak to his right jaw and numerous small ones here and there. His hair has been cut short and when he runs his left hand through it, I can see a missing finger. But his eyes are the same, a beautiful shade of grey and when he smiles, he is seventeen again.

“Good sir,” Baz begins, grinning at me, though his voice is cracking with emotion. My hands- or hand- is cupping my mouth as a string of profanities escape it, the sheer shock boggling my mind.

“I had made a promise to you nine years ago. I went to where you lived three years back, two years after the war was over, but I was informed that you had left to god knows where. I have been searching for you ever since, until I finally stumbled onto someone who told me you were here. I come to tell you that I kept it.”

He takes in a deep breath as he smiles wider as tears spill down my cheeks, my face breaking into a grin I can't hold in.

“I kept the promise I made to you, Simon. I kept it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am honestly never going to write a fic or any book set in Nazi Era ever again. I felt so upset when I researched stuff. 
> 
> So Baz and Simon get a happy ending but not really. All those horrible mental scars and the homophobia prevalent, coupled with almost ten years of seperation will never let them be a normal happy couple. But, it's better than them dying.
> 
> Also if there are typos and stuff, then please forgive me. I broke my arm and I'm having trouble typing shit. 
> 
> Have a great day!


End file.
